Crossing Lines They Drew Themselves
by gnbrules
Summary: She invited him over for Valentine's Day and had meant it to be entirely platonic. No, it wasn't her best idea ever.
1. Ichabod

**Crossing Lines They Drew Themselves**

**Summary: She invited him over for Valentine's Day and had meant it to be entirely platonic. No, it wasn't her best idea ever.**

**A/N: So this is sort of a two-shot with perspectives from both Ichabod and Abbie for the same night. Because of this, many elements are rehashed in the second chapter from Abbie's POV, but hopefully I've focused on character enough and made enough changes so that it doesn't entirely feel like the same thing twice. Also, for the purposes of this fic, Katrina is ambiguously out of the picture.**

He spends a week remarking on the rather lurid aisles of flowers and trinkets that have popped up in the grocery stores for St. Valentine's Day. Miss Mills tells him that the day is now about selling products, as every holiday seems to be in this century. Then she asks him if he'd like to spend the evening of the 14th with her, and he can't help but think he wouldn't mind spending _every_ evening with her. It's a dangerous thought that he pushes to the recesses of his mind, but he accepts the invitation regardless.

It's just two friends enjoying each other's company, after all.

Still, Miss Jenny finds the situation amusing and gives him a plethora of tips, most of which are indecorous and make him distinctly hot around the collar. She does offer him some _useful _advice, however. "At least get her something, English. Not flowers. She thinks they're pointless. But chocolates, she'll like that."

He decides that would be a friendly gesture since Miss Mills is inviting him into her home and it _is_ polite to bring _something _to such an engagement.

He arrives at her place by bus, something he has grown accustomed to due to the fact that he has yet to acquire a car. Or a driver's license. Or a birth certificate. And he can't expect Miss Mills to 'always cart his ass around like a chauffeur' as she once put it. He walks the last block to her place, and in that time his hair gets swept around him by the chilling wind. He can't help but think that the mystic energy around Sleepy Hollow keeps the place colder than it should be, and he casts glances wearily over his shoulder before he reaches the safety of her door.

When she opens it, she eyes the box of chocolates in his hand and addresses it in lieu of greeting. "You bought me chocolates?" she asks with a familiar quirk of her eyebrow.

He explains that Miss Jenny made the suggestion, and she replies that this is a custom intended for _relationships. _He does, in fact, know that she means romantic relationships and that Miss Jenny has put him on a bit, but he still does not wish for his gift to her to be rebuffed entirely. It is easily remedied by his show of mild hurt at her refusal. And he _knows_ she sees through that, but this is a game they've played before. It's one he tends to win, though he has no idea why.

He decides it is best not to dawdle in the doorway, so he heads towards the couch and reminds her of the entertainment she promised. She tosses the DVD box towards him. It features attractive actors on the cover, but that's no surprise. All the actors these days tend to be attractive – it's part of what sells, and he thinks that's a shame. It should be talent that sells.

"The best romantic comedy of the year," he reads, and glances up at her for confirmation.

"It's actually supposed to be terrible," she says with a smile. "I picked it more to make fun of it than anything."

Ah, another thing that he can't make sense of in this century. If it's terrible, how is it that it's a "hit film" that's made millions of dollars at the box office? He poses the sentiments aloud and she agrees vaguely, then settles herself on the other end of the couch.

The space she leaves between them is a canyon. He notices this with a pang of something like disappointment.

She starts the movie with the remote, and he turns his attention to it as best he can. But the more he watches, the more incredulous he finds himself becoming. "She's swearing off men forever, she says? If this is a romance, shouldn't it be over?" he asks, half-kidding and half legitimately wondering how this could last for another – he checks the DVD Box – hour and ten minutes.

The lieutenant laughs beautifully at his comment and it spurs in him a strange surge of pride and pleasure, to have caused it. It is, however, rather short-lived as the next scene shows the actor featured on the DVD box cover, mid-coitus with some woman. Their lower halves are covered by a sheet, thankfully, but their heavy panting leaves no doubt as to their actions below.

Ichabod feels his face flush and he speaks just to drown out the film's sounds.

"That's rather crude," he says with a half-glance at Miss Mills, but she won't look his way. No, she's staring rather pointedly at the carpet rather than at him or the television screen.

Interesting, he thinks.

Twenty minutes into the film and the doorbell rings. It both surprises and irritates him. Who or what intends to intrude upon their night together? He looks at her and wonders if she invited someone else along, but she answers before he can pose the question.

"Pizza guy," she says, and he feels relief. A temporary interruption for the food delivery, no summons to go fight evil or some other equally unwelcome third party. She pays for the food quickly and returns with it to the couch. They eat straight from the box. No, it is not fine cuisine, but he's starting to adopt what seems to be the overwhelming modern sentiment that fine cuisine is overrated. The pizza is quite as delicious as anything he could hope to eat.

"_I never meant to fall in love, okay? But she's all I think about, man!" _says the actor on the screen, and Ichabod can't repress the groan in his throat. This isn't storytelling. It's rubbish. "You know," he says conversationally, "the dialogue in this film is an absolute travesty. I could write it better."

This amuses her to no end, and she wastes no time in calling him on the proclamation. "Fancy yourself a screenwriter, Crane?" she teases. "Is that what you hope to do when we're done with the whole Apocalypse business?"

He grimaces. "No, but I could do it better than _this_."

"And what would your romantic comedy be about, huh? A time-traveling revolutionary war hero who says things like 'hasten' and 'fortnight' to win over his modern day love?"

"He'd have more eloquence than _that_," he muses, and she laughs again. It is a long moment before he registers what she said, precisely what she said. The time-traveling revolutionary war hero and his _modern day love. _If he's the war hero in this theoretical plot, then she would be...but no, that's the point. It's theoretical, hypothetical, a joke. A good story, not reality. She wasn't casting them into it at all.

He chides himself for reading too much into things that have no meaning.

She opens the box of chocolates a little after this and tells him to help himself. He tries to refuse taking from the gift he brought for her, but her will is iron and he does have a soft spot for the dark chocolate, after all. Once, her hand brushes his as they both reach into the box between them. They ignore it, just as they always have when the looks or touches linger just a tad too long.

As the night wears on, it gets colder. He has his coat and is far from freezing, but he does wish her little heater could warm up the open living room space more effectively. The lieutenant apparently agrees with his thoughts and disappears to her room, returning with a soft-looking blanket in her arms. She doesn't even look his way as she wraps it carefully around herself.

Maybe it's this that urges him to remind her of his presence. Not that he means to be demanding or ungentlemanly, but she looks so impossibly _cozy _in that blanket that an absolute need to feel that too seizes him. "Not going to share?" he questions, trying to keep his tone light and amused rather than necessarily suggesting she do so. The look she gives him, however, seems to say he failed spectacularly.

"It's not big enough to reach across the couch." she says, and her voice isn't at all what he's used to. It's uncertain, lacking that confidence and yes, _cheekiness, _that she uses on him with frequency. But what she says does seem to be true. It's not a particularly long blanket, and he thinks that if she stretched it, it would just barely reach one of his legs.

But that's just because of the canyon between them. He's certain it would cover them both well if only...

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and suddenly it's his voice that doesn't sound like his own. "So why not sit closer?"

She doesn't give an answer, and he realizes it's because she doesn't have one. She shuffles closer to him, bringing the blanket along in her wake, which he'd somehow forgotten even though it's what started this in the first place. Of course, this realization means there's no point in lying to himself anymore: he hadn't cared about the blanket or getting warm at all. He'd only wanted to have her close beside him.

He needs to keep up the pretense, though, so he tugs his share of the blanket over himself and inwardly revels in the experience. Is it because it's Valentine's Day that this feels intimate in nature, or is it just because it _is _intimate? He finds himself not caring much either way. Her warmth is impossibly comfortable against him as the rain patters down outside. He can't resist leaning against her a little more than necessary, though he does manage to refrain from putting his arm around her.

It's so nice and now his stomach is full and the movie isn't nearly interesting enough to keep his attention; he is not surprised at all to learn, upon waking, that he'd fallen asleep in the first place. What _does_ surprise him is that his sleeping companion has adjusted herself so that she's curled up on her side, her head using his leg as a pillow.

He swallows hard and tries to figure out what he should do. It feels odd to be awake, in her apartment, with her sleeping (on him). He thinks she might find it a little...creepy...if she knew he'd just sat there watching her sleep, but then again, wouldn't it be unkind to wake her? She looks so restful and comfortable, and if he's being honest with himself, he doesn't want this situation to change at all...

He's still contemplating this when she awakes a few minutes later, jerking up as though repelled by him. He tries not to let that sting. Her reaction, honestly, is rather what he expected. "Have I been sleeping this whole time? Why didn't you wake me?" she asks, and it sounds almost like an accusation.

He hurries to clarify that he has _not_ been watching her for the entire full hour, at least.

"I dozed off for a bit too. Missed the end of the movie by the looks of it. But I awoke perhaps ten minutes ago and you seemed...comfortable. I thought it rude to wake you." Everything he says is true, but it still feels like a lie. _Because you would have been content to stay that way all night, _a little voice whispers in his head.

Almost as if to combat the thought, he finds himself saying that he should leave. They're both tired, clearly, so of course he should head back to the cabin. Even though he doesn't think there are any more buses coming this way, and even though the rain is still pelting the roof and windows outside. He just really needs to leave before he does anything else that might betray his thoughts.

But Miss Mills stops him in a way that leaves little room to argue, and the thunder that suddenly booms around them seems to emphasize her point. He agrees to take the couch. She leaves him with the blanket that smells of her, unfortunately. Or fortunately? He doesn't even know anymore. The pillow she provides is no better and there is a longing erupting in his chest. It's been building for months now, but he hasn't let it out nearly as much as he has tonight. He refuses to put their friendship in jeopardy, and there are just so many complications. They have their role as Witnesses to think of...

"Goodnight, Crane," she says as she turns out the light in the living room.

"Goodnight, Abbie," he says, and her first name slips out, no doubt due to his surging, volatile affection for her. But it feels _right. _

_It's really her fault_, he thinks as she disappears to her room. Inviting him over on _Valentine's Day, _of all days.

But as he adjusts his head on the pillow that smells like her, he can't help but be nothing but grateful that she did.


	2. Abbie

He arrives promptly at 8 o'clock, wearing his usual clothes and looking windswept. She isn't surprised because she's been listening to the wind whipping past her windows for about an hour now; she _is _surprised by what he brings.

"You bought me chocolates?" she asks, eyebrow raised.

"I heard from Miss Jenny that you'd prefer them to flowers, both of which are custom to this day?" he asks, and she sighs in response. Of course Jenny put him up to it.

"Custom for people in relationships," she says, standing aside to let him into her apartment.

"A friendship is a relationship," he says stoutly, and she knows _he _knows what she meant, but is determined to play innocent nonetheless. "If you don't want them..." he says, and his reluctant, almost hurt expression is enough to break her. Even though she's ninety percent sure it's for show.

"Of course I do," she says. "Thanks, Crane."

"So, ah, movies, yes?"

She nods and he follows her to the couch, settling himself on one side. It had seemed like a good, fun idea at the time to invite Crane over for the evening of Valentine's Day. Not romantic, of course, but mostly to mock the commercialism and celebrate being alone together. When she had put it that way, he had asked her if the definition of 'alone' had changed since his time, as her statement would otherwise seem an oxymoron. "No, Crane," she had said and explained no further, and so he seemed to chalk it up to her own 'particular wry humor' and the 'new age's fondness for irony.'

Her desire for company today was one born out of Corbin's loss. They too had shared Valentine's traditions when neither of them had significant others(which was more often than not): they'd exchange those meaningless little Valentines cards meant for children's classroom parties, share beer and apple pie and play poker while some cheesy movie played in the background. It had been easy and simple, a time to bond. But Crane was not Corbin, and Corbin had never bought her chocolates. Corbin held a place as a father figure, and Crane was something else entirely. Crane was a question she was afraid to answer, a complication, someone she really _shouldn't _have invited over on a day with such romantic significance.

But Crane doesn't seem to notice her newfound reluctance, and so she tells herself to get a grip. It's just Crane, and he's just relaxing on her couch waiting for her to get the movie ready like any friend might. "So what are we watching?" he asks with a pleasant smile, and she grabs the nearby DVD box and tosses it to him. She watches him examine the cover and read the words on the back.

"The best romantic comedy of the year," he reads, and glances up at her.

"It's actually supposed to be terrible," she says with a smile. "I picked it more to make fun of it than anything."

His brow crinkles slightly. "It never ceases to amaze how things in this time which are so obviously lacking in value are still inexplicably well-received."

"Agree with you there," she says, and settles on her side of the couch, leaving plenty of space between them. As friends should.

She starts the movie with the remote, and they watch with a wry commentary here and there.

"That's rather crude," he says when the movie introduces the male lead, mid-bang of some chick that is _not_ the love interest that will change his playboy ways. Abbie avoids catching Crane's eye during the scene. She's embarrassed, for some reason she can't explain to herself.

Twenty minutes in and the doorbell rings. He looks at her with questioning eyes. "Pizza guy," she answers, and stands up to get the door. She pays for the food quickly and returns to the couch with the box, which she sets on the coffee table. They don't bother with plates, they just grab slices and munch while they watch.

"You know," says Crane conversationally, "the dialogue in this film is an absolute travesty. I could write it better."

She laughs at that, suddenly feeling more relaxed than she has all night. "Fancy yourself a screenwriter, Crane?" she teases. "Is that what you hope to do when we're done with the whole Apocalypse business?"

He grimaces. "No, but I could do it better than_ this_."

"And what would your romantic comedy be about, huh? A time-traveling revolutionary war hero who says things like 'hasten' and 'fortnight' to win over his modern day love?"

"He'd have more eloquence than _that_," he muses, and she laughs again.

They open the box of chocolates not long after that and pick their way through them together; he prefers the dark chocolate and she prefers the milk chocolate, so it works out rather well. As the night wears on, a chill seeps through the apartment, undoubtedly due to the less-than-stellar insulation of the walls and the roaring wind outside. She even hears it start to rain after awhile. She turns up the small space heater she has set before them but, still finding it lacking, she grabs a blanket from her closet and brings it back to the couch.

She tucks it in around herself on her side of the sofa, and he notices with a smile that speaks of mischief and makes her heart squeeze strangely in her chest. "Not going to share?" he questions.

Words catch in her throat, but she works them out. "It's not big enough to reach across the couch." she says.

"So why not sit closer?"

If his voice sounds husky and daring, it must be her imagination. He must not know that even in this time there is something intimate about sitting close to one another and sharing a blanket. He must not be aware of how the smile on his lips could be mistaken for flirtatious. She should tell him so - she doesn't want him to inadvertently lose his 'sense of propriety,' but she doesn't know how to relay that to him without stumbling over the words.

So she says nothing but scoots closer all the same, and he tugs the blanket over himself and now they're sharing its heat as well as each other's. She's incredibly aware of every movement he makes beneath the blanket, and she feels impossibly like a school girl sitting next to a crush. Except she doesn't feel that way about Crane. He's just...just...

She doesn't know what he is to her; she doesn't know what he could be to her that would cause her heart to pound in her chest just with his proximity.

She is a bundle of nerves and anxiety next to him, and he seems quite unperturbed, and she hates him for it. He should be ultra-aware of her too. He should notice that his hand keeps brushing hers when he readjusts himself and avoid it at all costs. If anything, though, he seems to lean in closer against her, resting his weight more on his left side than his right.

Like he _wants _this.

It seems impossible that she should be able to fall asleep when her mind and body are humming with the closeness of him, but the next thing she knows an hour has passed and she awakes, disoriented. It takes a moment to realize that her head is on his lap, and that the _he _to which she's mentally referring is Ichabod Crane.

_Crane._

She jolts up suddenly as though scorched, and his head turns in his direction. His eyes catch hers.

"Have I been sleeping this whole time? Why didn't you wake me?" she demands.

"I dozed off for a bit too. Missed the end of the movie by the looks of it," he says, gesturing to the television where the DVD menu has come up automatically. "But I awoke perhaps ten minutes ago and you seemed...comfortable. I thought it rude to wake you."

He looks almost guilty, and she wonders if he is now aware that the intimacy of the situation has pole-vaulted past mere friends and strayed dangerously close to something else.

"I should go," he says, but she can hear the storm outside and she shakes her head and holds up a hand to stop him.

"No, it's late and it's all wet and dangerous out there. You should just stay, take the couch and we'll get you home tomorrow."

"I—okay," he agrees as a nasty clap of thunder booms around them.

She brings him a pillow and lets him keep the blanket on the couch. She glances at him as he settles himself on the pillow before she turns out the last lamp in the living room. "Goodnight, Crane."

"Goodnight, Abbie," he says with a sigh that sounds like contentment. Perhaps it is his tiredness that caused him to forego the usual 'Miss Mills' or 'Leftenant,' but the soft sound of her name on his lips causes a swoop in her stomach that she _must _try to ignore.

She heads to her room and as Abbie settles into bed, she thinks how often they've been toeing the line as of late. She wonders if it might be better for them both if one of them could just leap across it and see what landing on the other side might bring.


End file.
